Lessons and Illusions: a collection of poetry Artu
Copyright Art Rogers, 2012
Dedicated to Nancy (1954-1977) and Shannon (1976-1977), my greatest teachers in life and death.
I am reminded of the story of the young mystic who traveled a great distance to study at the feet of a revered sage. When the young man arrived, he proceeded to try to impress the master with how much he knew and how wise he was. Instead of asking questions, the student ranted on about his beliefs and philosophies. The master listened quietly for a long while. Finally, the student stopped talking for a few moments. The master asked his guest if he would like some tea. “Why, yes,” the young man replied. The old man began to pour the tea into his visitor’s cup. But he didn’t stop when the cup was full. He continued to pour as the tea overflowed into the saucer and then onto the tabletop where it began to run out on the floor. “Stop!” the young man said. “The cup is full. Can’t you see? It can hold no more.” “It’s true,” the wise one said. “We cannot put more into an already full cup. And you are like that cup. Until you empty yourself of yourself, your fullness will prevent you from learning.”
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There are the facts of this life experience: We are born, we touch others we are touched we are broken we are healed we die From these raw materials we create the stories of our life. We are the authors of our existence, choosing to tell stories of tragedy and pain or love and redemption. Like the people in our lives, our stories take on lives of their own, growing and changing over time. An incident or accident may change form from the high school bully that torments our days to the cherished teacher who guides our nights.
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Me A student once asked Carl Rogers, the eminent and influential psychologist, how he could become a perfect counselor. Rogers said he had asked himself that question and had come to this realization: when a person came to him for help he could not be perfect because being perfect wasn’t good enough. He had to be human.
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Mystery float there in the silence spinning slowly under summer’s first silver moon on the edge of understanding beyond the boundaries of sense trust, she said, is the first lesson all will be revealed
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Words Words can be like bright splashes of fleeting color in the garden of love peony poetry romantic roses lyrical lilacs but too many too long turn to weeds that choke out life let the soft rain of silence fall in your heart
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Anika What greater gift is there than to open one’s heart and home to another? According to native peoples, two questions are whispered in our ears: Destiny says: Are you living life fully to your purpose? Death says: Are you taking life for granted? (Carol Adrienne)
Anika is an ancient name in languages as diverse as Hebrew and Dutch. In Japanese it describes an juicy apricot. In Sanskrit it means “sweet-faced,” beautiful and gracious. It is also one of the names of the invincible goddess Mother Durga, the embodiment of Shakti, the feminine force. She is the divine one who, laughing with a sword in one hand and a goblet of wine in the other, slays the demon Mahishasur,
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Anika Do you know when I say I love you my heart expands my spirit smiles my soul rests easy Do you know when I say your name softly whispered into your ear no other words seem worthy or necessary your name embraces all Do you know your name holds hope and happiness wonder and joy like a seed Do you know when I say I love you it is more 7
than emotion it is a promise growing from that seed
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A Christmas Poem For Anika My bounty is as boundless as the sea, My love as deep; the more I give to thee The more I have, for both are infiniteShakespeare I have no need of Christmas trees Shiny ornaments, bright lights I have no need of blazing Yule logs Or rows of flickering candles I have no need of jolly elves Magically appearing in my home Or ethereal angels singing on high You are all these things to me. Each day with you is like opening A wonderful gift wrapped in mystery and joy Your eyes shine brighter than any star Gracing holiday tree or heavens above Your heart melts even the coldest day Your laughter is a cathedral choir You are the spirit of the season All year long, You are the message of generosity And love Your life is a gift to all you touch! 9
I am honored you have chosen me for your greatest gift: Sharing a life of love with you‌
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Prince Arthur and the Faerie Queen Let me talk about your beauty That shines like the morning sun And at night glows full moon bright Constellations standing aside to honor you Let us all speak of your beauty Let us shout in praise and wonder How you open the doors of your heart In generosity and grace blessing all Who kneel reverently before you Who sit at your feet yearning to learn The light, playful song you sing Who receive the gifts given with love You who anoint this tired traveler You who awaken the sleeping earth Calling out blossoms and birds Shyly waiting to be met in shared rapture By a sister element, a queen of the land Let me dance in shimmering veils for you Let me lay down my proud life for you Picking up treasures more perfect and precious Glimpses of magic moments in dimensions Nurtured and governed by the fey queen Within the circle of your arms and heart -For Anika on her birthday, 2/26/08
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I Am Blessed I am blessed to be graced by your smile that sparkles in your eyes that loves so deeply that gives so freely I am nurtured held In your arms In your heart In those sparkling eyes Stay with me here Make this our home Our temple of Love, Peace, Healing, Wholeness.
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Your Many Faces I adore your many faces, My Sweet Lover‌ Looking into your eyes, gazing upon your face, I know that I am a lucky man embraced by such a wealth of love and you, my dearest, clearest, most honored love, are The One that fills my heart so steadily so completely daily my closest star in a dazzling constellation of intimates; life partner and playmate soul sister and sexy soul mate Please remember, I remember dark moments mean nothing more than Winter’s clouds; rain drizzles or pours then skies clear, your sun breaks through and I am grateful you remain here, loving me.
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Make a Wish The clock’s digits all align You laugh to me, “Make a wish.” I wish… That we fall in love again each morning That we hold one another’s hearts gently That we spread joy to all those near us That our when our hands touch they heal That our words land softly on one another That we grow old together gracefully That we embrace happiness together That we recognize the wealth we have That we call in all the abundance we desire That all wishes come true Even when the clock moves on and The numbers no longer line up neatly Your laughing smile still remains…
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Me
Loneliness, longing and love: the defining illusions of life.
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My People Are My people are dark and light, with pale green eyes and eyes shining black. My people are sweating and laughing in kitchens, steaming up the windows. My people are eating pasta heavy with olive oil, cheese and garlic, latkes and tuna fish casserole My people are tightly rolled golden brown lumpia, adobo chicken, honey cookies and fried smelt. My people are rooms full of laughing children, gray elders, black-haired beauties and blond. My people are on the ocean’s edge in Bari and Naples casting nets, still living in old Roman towers My people are hunting through dark, cool eastern forests through white birch, hanging deer from frozen trees My people are from far islands and night fields blanketed with untouched snow, from Little Italy and Hartlot Junction. My people are great cathedrals, small prayer circles, 16
heavy crosses, enormous bonfires, drums and dancing. My people are books and plows, rough hands and death in childbirth, fierce fighters and loyal lovers. My people are gay, straight, bi, married for months, married for decades, never married, married to God. My people are Catholics, Jews, JWs and Atheists, Pagans, Shamans, the lost and the searchers. My people are Black educators, White truck drivers, Filipino housewives, veterans, nurses, prison guards and prisoners. My people are holding together an everexpanding web of life.
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Kristal "[S]ure quickies are nice and lovely and the equivalent of a shot of sticky espresso, but if you consider yourself a real lover, a true appreciator of sex and sensuality and skin and a true worshipper all that is holy and good in this world, you will right now get yourself in there and you will freaking work, and you will sweat, and learn, and study and memorize and feel and explore and breathe and love every minute of it and you will come up for air four hours later with a wrung body and a tired tongue and a sly smile and a huge thumbs-up from God. Understand?" (Mark Morford)
Kristal: From the Greek Krystallos, (clear brilliant ice), variant of Christiana, follower of Christ.
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Kristal Looking in your eyes is like holding irrational happiness in my hand like water it flows through my fingers and it nurtures seeds I cannot see but can only trust that in their existence ready to burst forth in the warmth of Spring like
Magic
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Think Kristal Think silver and gold jingling like coins on dancer’s hip scarves full moon cut from black sky or glittering ocean sunsets Think Kristal Think eyes wide and deep settling like a blessing Lake Tahoe turquoise dressed mountain lake bottomless enveloping like a warm quilt Think Kristal Think sparkling champagne bubbles dancing upward laughing down the throat smiling into the belly feeding intoxicating fantasies 20
Think Kristal Diamond sharp, cloud soft gentle and strong as water dancing in wild joy throughout the night grabbing unsuspecting dawn throwing legs around its waist squealing with delight Think Kristal
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Warm Memories on a Cold Day As walls of wind and rain shake tree leaves and limbs to the flooded ground I am warmed by firelight memories of a temple night watching the facets of your face move through time, emotion, passion dreaming of bodies entwined mandala-like peace sleeps soundly in my heart warming my spirit, sheltering me against the gray cold storm
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Me “My life is in transition. My relationships are in transition. I realize I could have said that at just about any point in my life. In the past I’ve been surprised, shocked, resisted those transitions but now I’ve found a place of acceptance. I can see those transitions as opportunities to grow new connections, to walk through a door, to become a new me. Nothing is lost. I only add, building a magnificent structure that is my life. Life is a series of transitions. I thank all those who love me, because I never would have found this love for myself, by myself.”
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Spring Awakes Earth throws off cold sleep blinks in wonder at clear skies birthing in sun warmed lust flowers scatter rainbow wealth bold buds and blossoms open we cast aside heavy coats of grief hope and joy fills every song rushing clear and silver strong snow melt from cloudy mountains welcoming back calling forth new life and old friends to lay sun soaked breeze stroked in meadows trembling awake stretching chilled muscles cracking numbed joints staggering to tremulous legs drunk once more on risk and hope of existence take hand shoulder to shoulder gather together to push away death’s dark dull vault stone cry into the dim passage with sun’s sacred word raise to life again Lazarus drop the winding clothes don your purple robes now is not the time for silence it is the time for song
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Grandma’s Cure Her name was Concetta but everyone called her Kate my Italian Grandmama raised on Mulberry Street heart of Little Italy, NYC she ruled the steam and clatter of her white and black tiled kitchen garlic scented heart of the house on Northside Syracuse Laurel St. behind the clanging barrels of Congress Brewery. She had a simple cure for colds: tiny pasta pearls in rolling boil break in fresh egg and quick mix olive oil river, salt and pepper storm hefty handfuls of parma cheese crushed garlic, don’t forget garlic! more olive oil with love and prayers Mangia, mangia bello bambino amore mio il pane della terra ci sostiene, il vino rallegra il nostro cuore e l'olio illumina il nostro volto) (bread from the earth sustains us wine gladdens our heart and oil makes our faces shine)
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Deserted Sleep never came to my bed last night. I lay waiting like a wife for her cheating husband. Cycling through worry, anger, depression, grief, boredom. Desperate for the rueful stirrings to betray my desired's presence. And still I wait with dawn teasing my redden eyes.
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Connie Two monks, a student and his teacher, were walking from onemonastery to the next when they came to a river. There they saw a woman struggling in the water, obviously drowning. Without hesitation the older monk rushed into the water and took the woman in his arms, carrying her safely on the shore. The student stood watching the incident in shock and dismay; he knew the vows they both hadtaken prohibited any monk from ever touching a woman. The pair continued on their journey with the younger monk fumingwithin, replaying the scene in his mind, questioning all that he had been taught. Finally, after hours and miles, he could no longer holdback, “Master! I fear I must report you to the abbot! You have broken your vows! You have touched a woman!” The master smiled and responded, “Ah, yes, I have touched a womanbut I set her down on the other bank, why do you still carry her?”
Constance: English/French version of the Late Roman Constantia meaning constant, steadfast, reliable. 27
The One I Love Sit in the silence Of your own beauty Like a rose in the sun Like a dancing flame Breath in the strength Of your own center Feel it rush into every cell Feel it fill you root to crown Look into the heart Of your sacred self That knows no fear That lives for love Listen to the Divine One’s song Singing to your soul Be bigger than this body Be who you fully are That is the One I love.
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Thank You Lover Your wild black hair envelopes me like the night like a dream that swallows my soul whole yearning for another moment of sleep with you the trembling dawn is held back by my very will bring me the spices of the east on your swaying hips the fragrance of exotic blossoms on your tongue in return I will uncage the panther in your eyes and run through moonlight fields naked with her
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Me Everyone is born into a prison, a prison of fear, prejudice, superstition‌ but there is a world beyond and the desire to see through the bars, to become whole, or a least glimpse a part of the whole – that is art. (Studs Terkel, 1961)
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Belief Trees in morning light branches light with pink flowers soon to birth heavy with sweet apples I reside in the shadow of creation as mute as stone Pan infinitely more worshipful in dreams Busy wakefulness smothers with every awkward step struggles stillness, presence, silence one prayer Call forth faith unbounded Without expectation, full of quiet desire Like an blossom awaiting fruit
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Arabella If you’re not living on the edge, you’re taking up too much damn room. (Anonymous)
Arabella was a popular Celtic name meaning prayerful or answered prayer; in Dutch the name means beautiful; in Italian it means “beautiful altar.” To the Germanic peoples she is the Eagle Heroine.
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Bee Here Kisses sweet as honey fly on improbable wings across hundreds of miles landing squarely heart on
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Together I whisper your name sunlight picks it up, carries it eastward gentle Spring breezes kiss your smooth neck slowly, softly, warmly in this smoldering moment we breath, we beat, we are together...
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Pleasure Now Where is the pleasure now? following the trace of your finger tip from my genitals to my heart rushing into my lungs and out with sighs and groans and singing Where is the pleasure now? in your red hair and shaman lips humming along the shaft of my cock to curling toes and fingers reaching out to the sun beyond sheltering trees in the cool green breeze from the forest over my skin Where is the pleasure now? hovering honey bee-like in the golden thick sensuality of your voice between nipples teased and tweaked with oiled fingers Where is the pleasure now? drumming and chanting in a tent at the edge of timelessness one stop in the present moment of a long delicious journey in lovers waiting nearby jeweled in graciousness, generosity blessing this now 35
Where is the pleasure now? Held in my lungs, held in my root as you cradle And squeeze and roughly pull me Toward pain’s glorious threshold Then release waves breaking hard Where is the pleasure now? hold, holding, held let go… the ego looks through the black doorway into the owl’s night call for a moment, for one breath, terror stands straight and tall then collapses this is not my moment to die this is fully my moment to live when that moment comes I will go let go in joy… because of this moment in a symphony of birds and wind and tree tops swaying against a blue sky in life and living in love in possibilities and promises and power in living in beauty walking in gratitude in silence in stillness in asking within each breath where is the pleasure now? 36
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Eros and Thanatos Come to me temptress I summon you let me surrender under the touch of your fingers under the touch of your lash take my body and plunge it into ice water awareness every cell crying, screaming, begging for more harder, deeper, fiercer as hungry for my pain as for my passion entwined around a central core we dance smooth as black leather boots drawn along my legs soft as white rabbit fur encircling steel manacles my cock grows hard and red at the brush of your velvet lips the heat of your breath your claws biting into the shaft your long nailed forefinger pressing deep into the fleshy valley just below the cap of my penis in the front as it stands witness yes there, yes there until my lungs no longer remember to breath mimicking death eyes wide mouth agape 38
and you remind me releasing there and biting, sucking my earlobe whispering edicts of love I command that I must receive thrilled to drop the masculine mask to twist sensuously behind you to whimper and sigh to be taken, wrist bound above me, legs spread you slide over me like a great thundercloud goddess you know my body well all the places that thirst for your attention discovering more like a breeze your fingers brush my nipples so tiny and insignificant compared to your magnificent roses atop round firm mountains just peeking over the wall of black lace and leather but that slightest taunting feathering sends convulsions of pleasure, gasping, electric shocks course from nipple tips to cock tip that begins the unraveling, unfolding reaching upward, blood engorged you hover over me, teasing with your temple cavern your holy grotto floating I yearn to sacrifice myself upon 39
its pink glistening wet altar to suck in those long lips while my tongue flicks snake-like searching conjuring more fantasies into life another lover now lays beneath sweat coated skin oily between us I drive deep into her vessel as you lower herself in goddess pose over her mouth her tongue begging to savor the gift you offer on each teat silver clamps link us by delicate chains that you hold as reins in dressage moving us from gait to cantor gazing up into your passion screaming in orgasmic co-undulation shuttering we exhaust ourselves into blissful burning tender titillation exhilarated exhaustion we have walked the line and returned full and connected
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Zoe “I humbly bow to the magic of letting go... I want to be free of any concern with the past so I can live fully in the present...”
Zoe: from the Greek, meaning life (zetaomega-eta); it also describes “a means of living or providing subsistence.” It may be seen as having the dual meaning of living life and working for a living. In some ancient religious settings Zoe denoted the enlightenment of god. It was adopted by Greek Jews as a translation of Eve (to live or breathe), the first female and mother of all humans.
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Creation Story The night you were born somewhere heavenward galaxies collided rolling restlessly passionately lovers gracefully merging sending pulsating waves leaping light years radiating golden light showering mother Earth She embracing star diamonds holding them together at her green-brown breast baptizing oceans rivers molding cosmic beings into holy human form so there you were beginning the quest of life and light blessings us all with the startling radiance of your life's passion
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Blessings on My Lover When material world weighs me down presses my body heavily into the ground threatening to fossilize my very bones you arrive on wings and whispers softly breathing from your mouth to mine filling me with the light of your love lightening my leaden soul and ashen mind painting rainbows over a sick gray heart urging me to cast off the ballast of grief teasing me beyond pain back to the sun...
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Stand for Love Months into this spinning world we long to move, crawling grasping exploring reaching pulling upward We struggle to stand on shaky legs Two unsteady steps and we fall flailing chubby fists at the air our sense of firm ground shaken by gravity's uncompromising pull Again and again we stand we stand we finally find our feet plant them solid walk into the world searching seeking running jumping fearlessly tumbling testing our over-worked guardian angels we crash through floors, leap from swings scrape knees break bones twist ankles Again and again we stand we stand Through soccer fields of torn ligaments cracked metatarsals swollen feet arthritic knees crushed hips edema athlete's foot land mine amputations that steal quarterback dancers' dreams saved by modern medical miracle high-tech prothesis and iron will we stand We stand until we can stand no more hobbling shuffling limping staggering stiffly hobbling gimp tottering halting to gather air into worn lungs on paths 44
we once bound up brightly on our youth now we can pause to enjoy the view as children aged 60 or so rush by we falter flag hitch along into grayness and still be it unsteady momentarily we stand who confined to wheelchair or rocker electric scooter or tricked out Quickie Ultra doesn't yearn to stand up walk out walk about walk to the corner store or like John Muir upon a glacier shoe leather worn by miles and miles in spite of it all we never give up not a matter of faith hope belief we stand because we were made to stand bipedal primate treetop escapees like mountain tops church steeples sun salutations prayer pipe smoke we stand to reach a place that is higher to touch the face of a loving God to touch the face of our Mother because some pieces of the human experience are too precious and too painful to break off or cast aside do not fear you will not only stand again you will dance...
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Lyra: Inside You How is it to be Inside you? Like being in the ocean and the ocean inside me the sweet salt birth world water pulled from dark, dreamy depths to silvery light urged forward by the Sun and Wind awakened, aroused, alive building to towering claws of foamy pulsating power grinding the bones and stones round and smooth flinging itself against taunt muscles of a Western coast roaring down the full Moon clenching wet sand seaweed tresses spread across smooth beaches stripping away sand castle cities filling the rivered maze of a tidepool blood system with life evolving from a single cell to a flaming constellation spread across the sky‌
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First Scenes scenes from the night float through body, mind, soul from head to fingers, from breast to cock to heart piled in a fort of blankets hugging and laughing playful passion, swirling tongues and jelly roll blues trading chocolate cream kisses of milky desire nibbling tender pink nipples gasping in delight trading lost loves, hopes, dreams and disappointments building fantasy houses, worlds that may yet be swaying, snake dancing for you in the red candle light feeling the music and your eyes follow my form my fingers glide over the shape and line of your body your body, sensuous and filled with your life force entering you, invited in, pulled into your sacred channel swelling large and deep and thick, melting together falling into the night world together, skin to skin 47
unconsciously conscious of your breath and body waking elated against you as fingers of dawn prod me all rushing and running subdued, dismissed, only peace watching your face, smooth, young, innocent, alive time dissolves, morning comes unbidden a new day like the world’s first sunrise your eyes open to me you smile delighted, “you stayed the night…” yes…
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Morning You lay between dreams the warm purr of your sleep interrupted for a moment you stir just slightly as I ready myself for the day standing quiet in shadows I look down on your form soft rolling curves of life beneath thick cloudy quilts gratitude spreads is wings in my chest and takes flight soaring into the rising sun as I see a butterfly light smile flutter across your silken lips gently pressing my cheek to your feathery fine hair breathing in your bouquet more subtle and exquisite than God’s other flowers feeling life’s warm glow your smooth skin to mine selfishly I yearn to wake you completely fully to me to hold your haloed face close to look in the dark sparkling waters of your green eyes leaping again into adoration veneration, exaltation,
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devotation, passionation remembering who we are together in mad, joyful, crazy, playful, grateful love happiness escapes in a smile, a tear and a whisper
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I love you. Then I leave‌ always to return.
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Transition Shh‌ Please, don’t speak hold back the flood of words let a bridge of silence bring us together once more let us listen to our breath the song of our eyes meeting the whisper of fingers touching the chorus of bodies dancing the shout of ecstasy on fire hold back the flood of words let us walk together side by side along a winding wooded path to the center of that strong bridge grasp hands like brave children look down into the darkly churning waters roiling below flotsam and foam mysteries fill our lungs with faith gather our strength fingers tighten we jump‌
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Buried In Our Hearts I believe there are survivors beneath the monsoon mudslides clawing toward images of air and blue skies the only music they hear memories of fantasy’s concerts I believe faith is the food they survive on in living graves as friends water the rocks with their tears helpless to unearth broken bodies Isis and Horus await
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Typhoon The door is open does it matter now who closed it or why it has been lifted from its hinges by torrid typhoon winds roaring in violently crushing walls, ripping out roots sending red rivers flowing like lava peeling away painted surfaces tossing jagged shards piercing soft spots shaking us out of slumber dark emotions raging demons screaming sun blotted out by gray waves Then comes the eye exhausted, trembling gentle quiet, fingers touching tears two old friends once lovers hand cupping hand on white tablecloth eyes with watery sparkle soft wistful words would you like to come home with me? question hangs timeless answered before asked yes, i say, with no regrets or doubt
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Then the winds return counter-wise now counter intuitive but incandescent light flooding dams bursting gasping for breath in sacred embrace groaning screaming delight crashing over Tidal waves of passionate reunion returning to soul melding into spirit reaching toward divine’s radiant lighthouse lifeline pulling hand over hand over heart sanctuary searching finding that lost jewel treasure buried resurrected if only in this one moment that is all we have that is enough Dawn will look out over wreckage chaos, rubble, shredded bits of memory and birth something new in this cleansed land.
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Last Night’s Music Last night was a symphony of sensation your bed a playground of passion and an altar of awe on which to worship from overture to crescendo to chorus wrapped in joyful music of our flesh breaking free of gravity and time extradimensional cosmic fireworks abound around between and within calling us to the core of our connection and yet it is in the briefest pulse, beats cells of measure that form the figure where my memory quietly rests in bliss your delighted, dreamy smile mirrored by your lover, this imperfect servant the way you breathed my sex deeper with your sex, tight, warm and wet making me completely one with you our bodies fitting together perfectly prostrate in passion thru the night waking in the miraculous morning light to begin the shared song again and most of all, most vividly recalled your round breast, beautiful breath raising and falling gently silhouetted by the candle light a yellow corona brightly outlining the soft horizon listening to the mystery of your heart breathing my own prayers of gratitude I cannot know what this new day brings 57
but I bring to it a heart that is full and lips that have tasted the fruit of life
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Seeing Again, Living Again When I see you again I will stand back at horizon’s edge and watch the dawn wash orange, yellow, red over you consuming every seed of your glory I will breath in all the days of your absence as if it were my first breathe of this lifetime and all the lifetimes of our days together will avalanche into me carrying me away The sight of you will cleanse me, renew me, baptize me once again in the religion that cradles my soul the fragrance of you hair, skin and breath will turn me from gray to rainbow ribbons praise the sacred on the highest peak of the world the touch of you will electrify me with streams of incandescent wonder dancing across the surface of my fresh, plunging under the waves, deep within the core of my being bringing me once again to life Who else could work such a miracle?
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Me Back in the late Sixties an old Jewish woman from Brooklyn decided to go to India and seek audience from a great guru. She was told repeatedly that she could only say three words to him. Again and again people tried to discourage the long and arduous journey. "You'll only be able to say three words!" She would reply, "That will be enough." Finally, after months of travel by plane, ship, train and by foot she finally reached the guru's temple. "Remember," admonished the guru's senior student, "Only three words!" The old woman nodded solemnly and marched up to the guru. She looked him in the eye and said, "Moshe, come home!"
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Obituary I am now a footnote in your life our blazing star reduced to an asterisk my footsteps rapidly fading under evening tide's foamy fingers our bright evening star swallowed by another's full moon now forever moonless nights with few distant stars cold light excursus*
*
excursus (Latin excurrere "to run out of") anecdote in a work of literature irrelevant to the drama, just comic relief after acts of tragedy like satyr plays of Greek theatre ancient burlesque, bawdy episodes of drinking, fucking and frolic phallic play honoring a forgotten god affording actors and audience rest between life, love, loss, enlightenment
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Doors In Mexico the doors are colorful sleeping in unassuming siesta they stand bleached bright sun Quezacotl colors softly muted yellow dust embracing everything travelers and National Geographic photographs bring me this news we have doors here as well on narrow streets and in hidden alleys when light hits at just the right angle then reach into the rainbow and throw the latch and walk through
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Outlaws A bootlegger lives inside in the leg of my boot is a flask of symbols out of revenuer’s sight I pass it under the table to friends and strangers offering swigs of my bathtub gin moonshine words distilled out back behind gray eyes and heart tonight get drunk with me tomorrow the hair of the dog will nip us awake red-eyed then we’ll try smuggling in more love into the world
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Birds In the night circle the goddess called in the birds of this land more birds she called and with the dawn among the crowing of distant roosters cawing of crows thrasher’s sharp trilling pinpoint exclamations of tiny towhees last low round notes of hunting owls mixed building groans soft tones and hums wordless chants screams of delight words of an unknown language dancing that women sing in their ecstasy recalling ancient days when temples were filled with prayers of pleasure taking wing
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Susan I’m sorry Please forgive me. Thank you. I love you. Atonement Forgiveness Gratitude Love (Ho'opnopono prayer)
The place where you are right now God circled on a map for you wherever your eyes and arms and heart can move Against the earth and the sky, the beloved has bowed thereThe beloved has bowed there knowing You were coming… (Hafiz) Susan, a form of Susanna, deriving originally from Middle Egyptian "sšn" (lotus flower),first reported on an 11th Dynasty sarcophagus dating from approximately 2000 B.C
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Susan Across centuries your name whispers from ancient Persian plains Susa sailing on an ocean of lilies sousan down through Middle Egypt floating on the Nile lotus ssn And Hebrews singing grateful joy of life sasson Biblical women of strength, courage and justice Shoshannah Now here In this day, in this form Our ancient names touch Our young bodies touch Once again, joy blossoms‌
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Faith Seeing myself seeing the world seeing the moon and stars through your eyes Wakens me refreshes me gives me hope expands my heart Makes night less dark dawn brighten earlier day clearer and warmer Love real hope tangible possibilities endless life a thing of beauty
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In Your Arms In your arms I could spend all the days of my life held close in adoration expanded beyond comprehension for in your eyes, your graceful form your laugh, your touch, even your tears all that is grand and beautiful emerge most fragile flower, gentle summer breeze sparrows song, silver moon, sunrise blossom Face of the Divine..
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When You Dress Up True… No need to splash paint over rainbows Carve festoons upon the silver moon Cast or plate in gold any flower on earth Songs of man shred silence next to the Whistling Thrush Poetry is a pale imitation of nature’s grace… No, my sweet, sweet lover, Your beauty shines bright and beyond anything added silks, jewels, or lace still… let’s give the rainbow its brightest sun… moon, its velvet night flower, its tended garden thrush, its quiet forest you, my words of love… dressed up or dressed down or no dress at all shine, shine for all to see it is play, it is painting, it is pleasure and poetry it is you, a vision and gift…
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Words Fail There are times when words simply fail me. Vocabulary cannot reach into that space in my heart that vast landscape of my soul and mind where you have come to live, that you inhabit daily. Melting into your arms, gazing deeply, touching, surrendering to our hunger, walking the edge of pain and passion, strong and tender, aliveness fantasy images blossoming into this life now every kiss, every sacred spot of hot flesh, wrapping around one another in the night, waking with dawn to gaze, kiss, touch again... all this, we are, our love is what poetry aspires to...
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Others “It is better to tell a lie honestly than pretend the truth.�
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Toward the Light For Lucia on her tranisition Lucia brought us light and love as the candle flame and incense smoke follows her spirit she rejoins the cosmos unfettered by physical form she joins her loved ones past she joins the angels she joins the spirits Lucia was always our teacher now she is our ancestor she brought us together community to support her in loving death in transition through the veil Lucia has departed the body but lives in our hearts calling us to be our best to know ourselves all as angels of light joining arms in love not only in times of joy but in times of sorrow not only in times of death but in times of living open your hearts open your hands 72
cherish and praise Lucia cherish and praise us all
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Dragon Dragons Most misunderstood… are they frightening or wise or frightening in their wisdom Are they good luck or bad or nothing so black and white but covered in iridescence that change with the light your eye casts upon them Do they dance on heaven’s cloud or sulphur clouds Are they St. George’s prey or Quan Yin’s pet or Are they the strength and power of both one denied, the other blessed…
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Still Landing would that we could always fly lifted into the clouds sun cupped face bodies feather light filled with light eyes clear as eagles but even eagles must rest and nest sit in stillness breathe in memories eat sleep shit scrape talons on hard rock do all those other sacred earth-bound things that prepare them so well to leap together into the true blue ocean of space joyfully scattering feathers below
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Amber’s Embers She lays stretched luminous before me passion pulsating heat rippling the air an intra-dimensional portal into Pele approach with caution you will be burned swallowed whole by a volcano of lust long flames licking your exposed flesh soul singed black spirit exploding scream in ecstasy there is no escape available or desired only desire survives Freya’s fucking furnace Bastat’s blistering blast Ishtar’s holy incineration Amber’s igniting embers may I fuel this inferno may my sole and last purpose in life be as human tinder to this holy temptress torch consume my body
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oh, bright blazing One until I am but a bright moment in the night
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Inauguration I do not want my words to intrude, like footprints on untouched snow, on your song. Silence seems to honor it best, but still, my verbiage feathered bird must fly from my heart to yours Today I watched two men Walk alone One vacant, tired, gray, small in thought and age The other One full, visioning beyond Tall in purpose and young Others One and all giving space Offering solitude in the crowd Clarity Came focused through tears Compassion reaching to both Knowing That I and others walk with them Neither victorious nor defeated Alone Hallowed in the swirl of time None are demons or heroes Alone Today I watched two men Walk alone One out of history, 78
the other into history, with raising sun and long shadow Cast by each of us together And alone January 17, 2009
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Mystery of Chemistry for Bobby Love and GG
On a fertile forest floor Sleeps a single seed Waiting Lightening cuts the sky, strikes Winds drive the flames, running Wild Trees are engulfed, consumed Intense blazes a furnace of life Wildfire Seed opens, tendrils of life search Heavens wash down, feeding earth Water Sprout, seedling, sapling, rambunctious roots Brazen branches, reaching out, grabbing life Wanton Strong, deep, broad, secure, growing, giving Seasons turn, cold to hot, lazy to lustful Whirl From two elements so different: fire and water Entwined, one blessing has grown immense Wonderment
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Me “I've told you before, I don't comprehend religion, although conviction is a concept I'm beginning to get. In any case, someone with a real religious conviction is, I propose, a religious convict and deserves locking up.” (Elphaba, Maguire's Wicked) “The true dark night of the soul is when you realize that what you really do not believe in is... yourself.”
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Evil Eye reflect now in these shadows wrapped in silence and smoke time purring away black hours green emerald eyes staring daring one to inhale sharply looking away embarrassed aye, strega avete malocchio
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Darkness Escaped Tiger Kills One, Mauls Two – SF Chronicle, Dec. 25, 2007
I dream behind the bars of my eyes paces a great tiger, trapped, taunted muscles coiled taunt long teeth exposed chest rumbling growl years of caged rage leaping denial's high wall across restraint's moat claws seizing kindness by its slender throat ripping compassion's bloody beating heart screams erupt then silence... I awake among trust's dead and dying form witnessing love's last labored breath blood matting my fur...
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Cookin’ Broken eggs are required peeling the onion brings tears Diablo sauce wakes the tongue abruptly from complacency oil leaps from pans and knives nib fingers when slicing and dicing We learn early that ovens are hot so turn up the temperature if you can't stand the heat you know what you have to do your choice: food in multidimensional fullness or Mcflat? Me too...
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Freecycle Offered: Misc (Found poetry)
Buried in an overflowing digital in-box: Dell computer monitor - works Dell CPU - doesn't work Zen chimes beautiful wooden box little metal balls fall slowly strike chimes falling like slow rain Linksys etherfast cable/DSL router
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Liberation It is not enough to know our time is finite. It is not even enough to look out the window and see reality on the horizon. Safe inside you cannot feel breeze, sun, rain or snow. It is a whole and healing thing to fling open the door, stand on the threshold, extend your arms and say the prayer: I am here. I will be there. I am deeply grateful for what is and what will be.
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Temple Burn Write down all the names of those I love past and present and yet to come on the walls of this desert temple once empty, now full, then gone; a beautiful illusion life, love, death, man, woman, separation. Burn it down let sacred flames consume let it all blow away ashes in the playa dust.
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Allison Two monks, a teacher and his student, were walking along a dusty country road in a war-torn region. They passed the body of a dead child lying in a ditch. The student was surprised to see a tear escape from his teacher’s eye. He was shocked and confused as the teacher continued to quietly weep. After some time, the student could contain himself no longer and questioned his teacher sharply, “Master, I do not understand. You have always taught that all is illusion, that life is nothing but an illusion. Why do you shed tears over the a dead child, which is but a remnant of an illusion?” The master responded, “Yes, life and death are illusions. But some illusions are more painful than others. The death of a child is perhaps the most painful illusion of all.” Allison, of Germanic origins meaning of noble birth, faithful and famous among the gods; among the Irish it denotes honesty.
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Ancient Youth Your eyes like the stars sparkling anew every night their light ancient travelers how many lives how many soul births Your lips soft as petals your face classic Aphrodite today and yesterdays pool together in Your being
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Weak Words Words are too weak to lift this heavy load. They need to be as gray ash coating molten lava etching my heart. Erupting orange and red up into black night. Burning.
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My Baby Died, Allison Cried The room was small, long and narrow like a coffin it was large enough to hold us all but most lingered dazed outside the door in the gray light rain listening to the cries and laughter oddly alternating the strange, awful, awkward dance of grief the room wasn’t large enough to hold the pain we gave the parents room, standing like sentinels ringing wounded comrades around a roaring fire tended tenderly by a tall solemn grey suited man friend of the family, professional and quietly shaken a father himself, his child played with this child just hours before the world ended, a red light ignored now parents weep and wail over a small red head sleeping long into eternity clad in fireman’s
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yellow coat complete with red helmet and black reflector edged pants all gone now in brick-line mortuary furnace flash fire but preserved as long as we breathe in and out stories the sentinels draw closer as these stories are told seeking warmth from their suffering in this eternal flame of joyful memory, so bittersweet now so necessary life preservers of love in a sea of confused sadness tales of big trucks and trains and toys new puppies spontaneous expressions of love and questions we all have questions and no one has any answers advice and condolences trip awkwardly in with casseroles Chinese food, meat plates, tulips, stargazers yellow sunflowers they were his favorite flowers we are told fingers touching bright petals as if stroking his apple cheek
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tears escape let them run in great rivers filling that dark empty space oh, please may they never stop, it proves at least that we still live, even though we’d rather share death with that little red-headed boy who we barely knew one day the toys will all be packed away given away photos that cover the refrigerator gradually pruned down enshrined on acid-free pages between plastic sheets opened on birthdays and horrible anniversaries wept over in quiet, private moments and perhaps one day a little voice will ask who is this boy, this beautiful boy who smiles so big and runs so fast frozen in time that, dear child, is your brother who you never knew you see the dusty solar system mobile hanging there it hung over his bed and one day he stood head surrounded
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by Mercury, Earth, Venus, all the family and laughed look, mommy, I’m in the planets and yes days later he left us to join the stars, that’s him shining right there now you know story too. keep telling it. never forget. Believe
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Hand-Parting Meet at the bridge Look away from the mirror that was Look into the mirror that is By the Power of Poseidon By the Ardor of Aphrodite Cast anger and fear Cast resentment like a stone Into the waters Unknot the cord Shred the ribbons Let the tears Salt the waters Love released is not love lost It returns to the Sea It returns to the Sea It returns to the Sea Toast that which has passed the joy, the sorrow Prepare for the journey ahead Cast off the ropes that bind set sail for a new horizon trust the navigator of your soul Trust your heart Birth yourself New born Full, free and whole You know who you are 95
Cross the bridge don’t look back It is done
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Mckenzie
“How much time there is when I stop counting the minutes.”
Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself I am large, I contain multitudes. (Walt Whitman, “Song of Myself”)
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I. Mckenzie River No river no matter its age tires or retires surface in rolling upheaval or still in rocky harbors it moves with current, wind or dancing sunlight nudging seductively at bottom and bank to run away with it to the sea life in and around thriving, diving, driving, living, dying constantly by the moment or the millennium No river ever tires rolling itself into monotony or boredom It lives until it dies.
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II. Squirrels Strange, she said there are no squirrels here running busily up and down the puzzle piece bark of tall straight Douglas Fir pillars of this green temple moss laden branches reaching relaxed back down to mother earth soft as pillows with decades of leaves and needles the labors of countless decomposers sing meadow larks shy giant black crows lecture sternly but there are no nervously chattering bushy tail rodents of ground or tree entertaining us distracting us or stealing into camp to nibble at food bags or explore our treasures of trash we miss them not only for their playful antics but perhaps because they remind us of ourselves always in motion, always collecting gathering hoarding 99
against scarcity alert to intruders who would raid our pantries, invade our territory perhaps there is that little gray squirrel within who worries that this solitude these untimed, unclouded series of present moments will weaken my survival instincts, lull me into peace and contentment with the song of the river tumbling over rounded rocks gathering in still, cool pools of emerald dancing in sun edged eddies that I will forget work that defines my being being clutching with little sharp claws into branches waving in the winds of conflicting emotions or swaying trapeze-like on the telephone wire of my desperate desire But industrious squirrels and even bold adventurer raccoon seem busy elsewhere perhaps lured from this breezy arbor to the edges
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of asphalt and easy pickings of dumpsters and trash cans or I'd rather think they've gone far deeper into the wilderness far from the highway hum that the river's roar just can't quite blot away gone on their own vacation holiday from want, into the abundance of a nature we humans can only imagine by morphing them into biped cartoon characters, trees speaking perfect English stones that dance to our music Strange perhaps that there are no squirrels but late in the night moonless night where God upended His starry toy chest across the black carpet of sky and each speck of light beckoned like a window into the lives of other, unknown families in distant cosmic cities something moved something large and blacker than the sky moved something that made a sound like a vessel looking
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for something else to hold moved something though large at the same time formless like a shadow moved something darker than, larger than, squirrel or raccoon awkward by not out of place moved something that did not frighten or even concern but intrigued moved away from me, not a threat in fact, the absence of threat, moved dissipating, dissolving into the night away from me it moved toward the river, upstream into the wild, toward the source it moved and I turned my eyes back to the sparkling heavens sighing out the last of the dark, formless cloud said good-bye to the chattering squirrel, cuddled deeper into my lover's nest and slept
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III. River and Pool A river, not far from its source runs, jumps, rushes along with white foamy adolescent energy like a large playful puppy unaware of its own strength crashes into rocks drags away trees like sticks thrown by an unseen master chews at the ragged banks throws itself against the masculine bodies of other streams, creeks, tributaries wrestling and laughing until exhausted they tumble into rivers that have matured into working men shouldering barges and boats power cities with flexing muscles who eventually slow and spread with age
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who become smooth and placid with depth finally to surrender their individual life to the great, grand, infinitely deep ocean filled with life as the night sky is filled with stars Somewhere along this young river icy cold and furious in its masculinity a great tree fell, its roots relaxing their embrace of the earth revealing a gift, a glimpse of the mother's bones here she opens, spreads her legs hundreds of smooth stones glisten decorating her earth yoni her waters bubble up warm from deep within from a fire down below that buckled this land in birth contractions gestating and birthing for millions of years and still arriving ever birthing an orgasm that never ends only becomes tantric quiet for brief hundred year moments
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We bath ourselves guests in this grotto of Gaia still, warm, dark contrasting deliciously with the bright cold, violent river that plays along its edge And when winter rain swells the manhood of the river full with white foam thrashing, roaring with passion and primal rage he sweeps her away consumes her in his lust dragging away the boulders that separate mixing his waters with hers and the howl of fulfillment echos off the mountains They are one, lost together in one long spasm of delight from November through April she travels with him to the sea then exhausted they loosen their embrace fall to either side of their nuptial bed holding hands through the great old tree that still lives partly uprooted hugging the earth touching the river they return to their separate lives the river and the pool
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IV. Bat Sun high in the sky noon day melting hot seeking cool shelter immersed in icy snow run creek shade by a great fallen tree gapping roots sleepily contemplating a swarm of gnats recalling camping on the still warm body smooth rocks of another river at dusk watching bats skim the air just above our heads where human breathe had lured hungry mosquitos wondering about the bats of this river when, as if flying from a corner of my mind fluttered a single 106
small bat under the fierce eye of the sun over the silver speckled tumbling waters it wheeled and looped dove and sailed inches from the surface landing on baking white rocks to walk across on bat winged arms fluttering into the water as if in a backyard bird bath setting out across Deer Creek with bat breast stroke then aloft again wings of paper against the sun leaving unformed questions of unknown possibilities behind
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V. Main Street Standing on Main Street Seven, eight, nine years old Small town 4th of July my small town Main Street parade young innocent open awed VFD bright red truck local horses in fancy dress silver laden vets and home on leave regulars full uniform flags billowing high school band sun spiked brass snare drums approaching my heart picks up the staccato beat hard sharp exclamation points embed themselves in my young body raising it fills my ears radiates from my chest into my fingers passing, their hand-stick 108
extensions blurring against white-blue uniforms JE Eagles marching rattle of sticks on drumhead fill my being ecstatic transcendence from sameness shallow breath smallness lifting me with barely regimented savage shamanic spirit Then they pass down Route 5 past the house I lived and left at 18... Again, in this fern forest so silent, lush, green so far from Main Street I feel the drums once more...
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VI. River Thoughts Thoughts run like river tumbling over memories and imaginations crashing into some sliding gracefully around others resting momentarily in still lagoons more giving precious few special luminous that in reality's harsh, dry sun they lack like faeries caught in a bottle.
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VII. Rain and Wind I watched as they built a dark fortress over the forest cooling the green below alerting the knowing: it comes wandering back to camp pushing aside the humidity like branches blocking my path I felt the gentle rumble of thunder in my chest coming from the west suddenly filled with artificial urgency I rush to tasks neglected in the delusory days of sweltering, sultry sun securing our tenuous humanity against the gods of weather tarps out and spread over makeshift kitchen move tarps over bedding bedding relocated under solid canopy, tent up laughing with delight at adventure manufactured 112
large, languid drops to steady stream heat fleeing the assault leaving behind gray mists of mystery floating above an indifferent river's torrent shifting from bearded dragon to Buddha head to soaring eagles wings spread
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VIII. Small Things Noted Tiny leaves trembling with excitement over tumbling silver creek Long strands of gray mist climbing black trees Jeweled fly landing on my hand iridescent as a tropical fish Waking to steady rain borrowing into the warm of my lover Spark ash snowing downward like bits of cloud
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IX. Lovers and the River Two making three One Together nested in river stones and moss sheltered from high day sun there my Man passionately living life large there my Woman sensually larger than life he elegant in words she elegant in silence she settled into my lap my fingers wet inside her she feeding with teeth and tongue on his swollen, thick, beautiful cock her head throws back to my shoulder her groans are swept up by the river his eyes narrow and lock with mine
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our breath hiss in union turning harsh and fast with raising orgasm her mouth is filled again with him and again with him until it flows from the corner of her lips a tributary of a great river she swallows while I feel her headwaters throbbing by this water here surrounded by the tall green beings that live in this forest here now and for this moment we are one with all in passion
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X. Campfire Wise old men blackened with age tempered by experience huddle close around the orange tongues licking eating consuming this still moment of life broken and tented with happy heart quiet eyes smile at hot veils swirling bright, black-eyed dancer ethereal dangerous beaconing timeless 117
memories of many lives past breath feeds mist falls smoke raises
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XI. Not Thinking Not thinking is a good beginning for meaningful thought. This kind of not thinking thought is creativity; it runs when pursued. It walks willingly into open spaces that sit in stillness waiting. Consciously constructed thoughts form a house for not thinking thought to make a home. Thought is the mask worn by fear, prejudice, history, education, isms, ego. Not thinking is... not Words are the weapons of thought flung at another or ropes to tie them down. Not thinking words are feathers tracing the line of your body or clouds held in empty hands. Thought is a path through the forest. Not thinking is the forest. 119
XII. More Small Things Noted One butterfly morphing by noon into thirty in flight fire orange wings black laced edges when at rest wings closed sooty charcoal as if born from last night's blaze
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XIII. Stop Really stop. Into stillness. Why do anything else? Why even ask why? Why this? Why these words crowded into your head, spilling out like toxic waste? Fall into love with this moment. And this moment. And this moment. Flow with movement. Grace without want.
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XIV. Gypsy There is a gypsy who lives at the edges of your eyes when you look at a field of stars on a clear night or into the embers of a dying fire You have driven her away from your neat, orderly gray stoned village with torches of shame pitchforks of envy with heavy clubs of responsibility and respect But though you bar and lock your door she slips into your dreams scatters your thoughts rips your deeds and titles certificates and degrees into confetti paints your walls with bright red veils stomps her heels hard against the floor of you limitations playing wild music to your soul 122
singing loud enough to wake the dead And the dead arise clapping and spinning throwing coins at the jeweled feet of a black-eyed, black haired temptress luring them back into life You, oh Lazarus, will awake in some distant land hair smelling of camp smoke pockets empty clothes torn but hung over with joy You have gazed into the crystal ball of your life and decided to live
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XV. Months Later: Home Looking out over the fresh emerald greenness dancing in the wind scented with rain it is a curious hour posed on one foot between night and day rising up on one toe pirouetting toward darkness
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Messages: Family, Friends, Lovers Our lives are angelic telegraph messages of dots & dashes, particle & wave sending messages of great import carrying our light into the darkness Like shadows moving across a meadow Like the seasons turning from flowers to snow Like great mountains crumbling into the sea Our lives cannot stand still for a moment Though in the moment all seems still Secure in the home, heart and hearth Of friends, family, lovers and confidents Circled around us like mother’s arms Circled like wagons against fears’ imaginings Circled like the fires light against dark But one day we must adventure out Leave mother’s arms, fire’s warm light Step into darkness, searching for shadows Among the shadows we find new selves New circles, arms, hands, hearts, homes Casting sad eyes back we may grieve But turning eyes inward we see them anew Those parents, lovers, friends, sisters, brothers
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Our children grown or gone, All Relations Travel with us, hold our hands, our hearts Even as we gather new family to us Our circle widens, circles overlap, entwine Forming a chain that links spirit to spirit From birth to death, past into future No energy in the great universe is ever lost It merely changes form, as does our universe Moving through cells, seasons, stars, We collect divine souls building rapture Toward the realization of sacred Oneness
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Me and the Mat
Hafiz wrote: "Ever since happiness heard your name, it has been running through the streets trying to find you." If I close my eyes, breathe deeply and sit very still perhaps it can catch up to me.
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2/27/08 I just returned from an Embodied Sexuality Retreat held near Half Moon Bay by a group from Shalom Mountain, New York. I wish I could tell you "all" about the week... obviously that's impossible and I know you don't expect that, but moreover, much of it is "not speech-ripe" and a lot of it was intentionally beyond the reach of speech. I can say that the experience shook me from my root chakra on up; can't know the full implications just yet... But it was also an exciting, pleasurable experience. One of those broad spectrum pleasure-pain-opening huge flood gate things. There was a lot of physical intimacybuilding experiences that would be familiar from Body Electric: sensual and erotic massage, the "unveiling and honoring" in small groups, genital show and tell, one-on-one sharing of reflections...
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The centerpiece of the retreat was affectionately known as "mat work" experience, so-called because it is done on the floor on a mat, with one person and a facilitator, possibly two, physically holding you. The rest of the group rings the mat, holding you emotionally, waiting for you to call them to play their part. For me, it brings up a combination of conflicting images: on one hand, as a witness and support for the person doing it, it felt like being part of a birthing team
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-- with doctor, head nurse, breathing coach, mid-wives, interns, all present and playing some essential role. On the other hand, as a participant it wasn't as much like a woman giving birth as a wrestler taking an opponent, literally, to the mat. Almost like Jacob wrestling with the Angel of God. Perhaps it helped a lot that I actually knew everyone there to some degree with the exception of one leader and one participant, so there was a built-in level of trust and love or at least appreciation that allowed me to show up authentically. It also helped tremendously that the leaders were very experienced and skilled at digging down and bringing out core issues. As I took my place "on the mat" I only had a sense that I wanted to look at my compulsion to "do it right" -- whatever "it" is and whatever "right" might be... What I worked through, lived through, were two key events that have become ungrieved energy blocks for me, places were blame and guilt about the consequences of my imagined failure to "do it right" by not being able to protect or save people I love, like a man is "supposed" to do: the twin deaths of my wife, Nancy and my daughter, Shannon
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and the death of my father. In the shadows of those experiences was my more recent "failure" to protect a dear friend and lover from muggers as well... Not even my compassionate, outside observer has a clear picture of what happened on the mat: there was a moment when the intellect was crushed by pure animal rage, soul grief, howling, screaming, flailing in panic and struggle, absurdity, acceptance and surrender.... there were moments when I literally thought I was going to die. As I tried to describe my father's death, I found I could not breath and was flooded with the same terror he might have felt moments before his release, when the mind was still present enough to hold fear... As I try to integrate the experience, to move that dream, as it were, into daily life along the bridge of words I see few revelations... and yet, I find hope in the newness of my underlying embrace... I almost wrote "understanding" but choose the more physical "embrace" because it doesn't seem that the mind will serve me well here -- at least not yet. I remember at one point on the mat wailing in despair, that "I don't understand!" and one of the
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leaders said, very calmly and directly, with palpable humor: Good. You don't have to understand. Understanding is what your head does and it's over rated. At any rate, my head does demand a voice and here's its imperfect attempt to put grammatical and linguistic structure to what I learned on the mat: "You are a wonderful human being but a piss-ant god." (This is a direct quotation from one of the leaders -- which I think is just priceless and perfect.) Being and doing are at the core of life, not being "right"; accept my own limitations and skills... My fear of doing life "wrong" holds me back from living life fully; see the limits of "right only" thinking... I can never do anything "right" -- it's futile and unnecessary, a moving
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target that constantly seeks to block my path; I just need to be the best possible person I can be in any moment, accept my humanity, love myself... I am a priest; open to the possibility of stepping into that role, expressing that priestly nature through studying as a sexual intimate (more than one person said this to me, including the resident, acting sexual intimate for the week)... I can enter into the darkness, move through it and emerge, and those I love will still love me... There are many people "out there" that I love and I still must master balancing the love for them with the love for myself... Once I showed up for another; I am ready to show up for myself... I simultaneously love and I yet believe a transition into separateness is necessary. I needed, I need to be more my own separate being so that I can return to my beloved, indeed to all my lovers, as a more fully present, fully developed, fully alive human
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being. There was another individual at the retreat who described the experience of living, growing and then separating from a spouse of over 30 years. They were like two plants sharing the same pot; they were beautiful together, they grew and appeared to flourish, their leaves touched and as they pollinated and encouraged one another's growth. But they couldn't see until it was too late that beneath the soil their roots had become so entwined that they were choking one another... better to be in two separate pots, or better yet in the expansive, unlimited soil of the earth... reaching out, touching, but not holding one another back... We ended the retreat with a meditation practice that involved going from absolute stillness into movement and back abruptly into stillness so complete you could literally feel yourself vibrating with the universe. I wrote this poem in reflection of that meditation: God may not play craps with the universe but he does play hide and seek
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I see her across the fields peeking through the willow branches but when I dive into the valley of pink petals she has vanished laughing leaving only her fragrance behind... Why do I play this game of taunt and tease with life? Why do I run from stream to river looking for the clear source? Why not stand in my own center and breath in silence... it's the last, least likely hiding place, under the blankets of my own bed alone, untouched, unspoken, untended looking only inward for the candle flame and only for myself writing love poems to my own soul wrapping myself in the warm blanket of my own quiet pleasure feeling my own inner universe in purple vibration flowing like the smoky veil of incense smoke into the world... At the end of the mat trip there's an amazing Lazarus-like ritual when the community wraps the individual in a sheet, picks the person up to carry and
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rock and then lift up to the sky like that old tribal tradition of lifting the new born to the rising sun. The leaders also select a special piece of music to play while all this is happening. The night before I had a dream that I was stranded in a faraway place with a friend and was trying to get back home. I had bought a bus ticket and was encouraging my friend to do the same. She left to do that while I tried to hold the bus for her but when she didn't return I ran to look for her. In trying to take care of her, I missed the bus myself. The song that was played for me was, Joan Obsborne's What if God Was One of Us?
What if God was one of us? Just a slob like one of us Just a stranger on the bus Trying to make his way home... I'm still trying to make my way home and this time I'm not going to miss the bus...
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Dream of the Mask
Do not fear death Do not fear change
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It was balmy, a warm breeze on the skin, turning toward dusk, a faint scent of vanilla floated on the air. In the distance an owl called. I approached a lake of golden light, shimmering in the last rays of the disappearing sun. On a tree stump altar three objects waited for me: A spiral A feather An obsidian arrowhead
In the lake I sensed a movement. I entered the liquid, like thick air it embraced me. I swam to the black bottom were I found a form, felt more than saw. Then, from the dark slowly emerged a great, round green eye with a heavily arched brow. Then a raptor beak-like nose and a face surrounded by banded feathers. It reached out to me and touched my heart, entering my heart, giving me words… Do not fear death Do not fear change It is time to let go of the smallness of grief It is time to leave that small sparse room You are not the fly
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You are not the mouse You are not even the scavenger raven‌ You are a great and powerful hunter of the heart Spread your wings into your greatness You have nothing to fear I made the mask from rice paper, gold and green, leaves embedded, face yellow, dark brown, orange, the color of aged, polish wood, feathers, a glass eye on copper with a brow of feathers, an obsidian arrowhead third eye and above it a silver spiral. Inside I constructed an altar on a shelf of rabbit fur, herbs and powders: comfrey, tobacco, garlic, rose, red beet. A Buddha sat above it all, against a background image of Earth. And a prayer...
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Into That Quiet Place Go to that quiet place, Silent as the hunting owl’s wings Searching the moon lit meadows For sustenance For essence of owl in flesh of mouse The willing sacrifice Find the quiet place Silent as owl’s wings Hunting moon bathed meadows for essence of owl hidden in flesh of mouse confident as predator accepting as prey
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Lucia Flies Toward the Light
"Life is cruel and unusual punishment: sentenced to the solitary confinement of our minds under sentence of death. And we never know when the executioner will call. It is only our own heart that can grant us pardon and throw open the prison doors...�
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August 7, 2008 Dear Friends and Lovers, Yesterday we saw the Gypsy Lucia off on her final journey. As her partner Sunshine said, "I can just see her now -- when I finally get to wherever she is, she'll be all excited saying, 'Come on, I've got so much to show you!" She has shown us so much already. Lucia has departed this earth with incredible grace and beauty. I couldn't help but thinking, as I gazed upon her in repose, so this is what a Bodhisattva looks like... Zoe, Anika and I drove up to Sebastapol yesterday in the waning hours of the vigil. Immediately upon entering the long, tree-lined driveway to the cabin where Lucia and Sunshine have been staying, one could feel the peace of nature descend. The simple one-bedroom cabin that their friend Anna had worked very hard to clean and decorate into a sanctuary was filled with light and quiet, although not solemn. Next to the front porch a small, 144
colorful garden, looked over by Quan Yin, was tended for Lucia. Inside the walls were hung with bright and vivid sarongs and fabric. Sunshine met us at the door with a sad smile, embracing us for a long time. Like Ammamchi, a picture of whom sat near Lucia's head, Sunshine held us firmly in love and whispered words for each person alone to hear. Entering the bedroom we found Lucia, small and full of grace, lying on a colorful cover. She wore her favorite purple top and a shimmering orange skirt that fanned out around her. She held a pink staff like a princess and flowers adorned her. As David had described earlier, she seemed to smile with slight amusement and her eyes were open, gazing into the wonder of the unknown. Above her sat a stuffed teddy bear -Sunshine said it was their "child" who went everywhere with them, dancing and making them laugh – and pictures of saints and teachers, including Ammamchi. We stood silently for a time, just looking upon her and then we scattered flowers and petals that Anika had brought from
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our garden over and around her, placing a "naked lady" at her feet. Zoe and I drummed for her spirit, helping escort her into the new realm. Leora, an old friend of Sunshine and Lucia's who wasn't aware of Lucia's illness or death and who we synchronistically just met in a Sebastopol parking lot, sang an angelic song for her. Others spoke aloud how deeply they had been touched by Lucia. I read my poem to her and laid it at her feet. Each of us also added to the box that Lucia would make her final journey in; already it was covered with pictures, stickers, love notes and poems, transforming a simple cardboard container into a vessel fit for Osiris. When the time of departure came we brought this vessel into the bedroom and then all present reverently lifted Lucia's body, as light as a feather, and placed her within, along with flowers, poems, pictures and a fresh strawberry from Anika. We stood, hand in hand, circling Lucia for the last time as Devi Premal sang. Then slowly, carefully we carried her out to the waiting van and as it drove away we waved and shouted "Good-bye, Lucia! Fly high!"
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Our small group, which now totaled about ten friends from various stages of her life, stood in the bedroom and held hands once more. Devi's soothing chants filled the room and our hearts. Sunshine sends his deep gratitude out to all who have supported both of them through this difficult, awe-inspiring time. He plans to be at the Sebastopol cabin until the end of the month when he goes to Burning Man. He hopes to see as many as possible at the celebration for Lucia in September. And then... life is a stunning mystery... Celebrate and honor Lucia by living life fully, compassionately and with gratitude, as she did. And do not hesitate for a moment to say, "I love you."
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All photos by Art Rogers, with the exception of the images on page 37, 111, and 118 taken by Anika AllySun.
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